


Malum Prohibitum

by heartbash



Category: Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (TV)
Genre: 3x11, Affairs, Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Gap Filler, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:13:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25962637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartbash/pseuds/heartbash
Summary: Series of vignettes that take place during the eight-month time jump in 311 and explore unseen moments of Rebecca and Nathaniel’s affair. Written for Rethaniel week 2020, using the following prompts from each day:Day 1 (Aug 17): MusicalDay 2 (Aug 18): PursuitDay 3 (Aug 19): FrictionDay 4 (Aug 20): Love LanguageDay 5 (Aug 21): ClosetDay 6 (Aug 22): ParallelsDay 7 (Aug 23): Choices
Relationships: Rebecca Bunch/Nathaniel Plimpton
Comments: 74
Kudos: 44
Collections: Rethaniel Appreciation Week





	1. Musical

Shiny glass and cool metal. Sharp edges. Crisp manila file folders stacked high on the boundary between their desks. They’re wading ankle deep in a shallow pool of _never agains_ , _last times_ , and _big mistakes_.

Rebecca is vibrating. Humming, actually, but it reverberates through her entire being the way her very presence reverberates through his. He’s not sure she even realizes she’s doing it: the humming. Music seems to be part of her essence; she breathes it in and out. Melodies sweat out her pores.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Her heel is in rhythm with the humming now and he’s equal parts annoyed and enchanted. Either way, it drives him to distraction.

“What’s that?”

The humming stops and her eyes flit up from her laptop to acknowledge him.

“Hmm?”

“What are you humming?”

“It’s from a musical. You wouldn’t know it,” she says dismissively, eyes returning to the screen.

“I know some musicals.”

“Oh really?” she asks with a chuckle, intrigued. She leans back in her chair and considers him. Her blouse shifts and he spies a hint of black lace, which pops in contrast to her lily white skin.

He shrugs casually, capping his pen and placing it deliberately down on his desk top. “I know the ones most people know, I guess.”

Her lips are blush pink. She wets them.

“ _Waitress_ is the musical.”

Her hair is bouncy, looks soft.

“Haven’t heard of it,” he admits.

She nods. Her smile says _I told you so_. She leans forward and places her hands over the keys of her laptop. 

“So what’s the song?”

She sighs theatrically and crosses her arms over her chest. “If you don’t know the musical, why do you care?” 

Besides the fact that annoying each other has become their favorite shared pastime since she became senior partner, he can tell she wants him to ask. She’s biting her lip in that beguiling, sexy way she does when she’s keeping a secret. A secret she doesn’t want to keep. A secret she wants coaxed out of her. 

“Well, I would like to know what I’ve been listening to for the past, oh, hour or so.” He checks his watch for dramatic effect.

She clears her throat. With a performatively nonchalant wave of her hand, she says, “It’s called, um, _Bad Idea_.”

“Oh?”

Now he’s the one who’s intrigued. He closes his laptop lid and folds his fingers together. _I’m listening._

In an understated, slightly off-key alto, she sings, “As in: _It’s a bad idea, me and you_.”

She pins him with _that_ look. That smirky half-smile and that curved, suggestive eyebrow. Her words may provoke and tease, but her body always tells the real story. The way it flirts and arches and swells. Her body never lies.

“Is it?” he goads. 

“ _Feels so good to be bad_ ,” she croons softly, uncrossing her legs. The dark space between, beneath her floral mini-skirt is an invitation to temptation. 

They meet in the shadows of the supply closet six minutes later. Already, their excuses are flimsy, at best. The preamble grows shorter with each clandestine meeting. 

When she takes him into her mouth, she’s humming again.


	2. Pursuit

They’ve long lost track of who’s the predator and who’s the prey. It changes from day to day, depending on who’s hungrier.

Today, Nathaniel is starved. 

From the moment Rebecca strolled into their office, munching on a half-eaten bagel, cream cheese smeared in the corner of her mouth, she could sense his hunger. He wears his horniness on his sleeve the way she wears her heart: exposed and raw, shameless and greedy.

She doesn’t feel guilty for toying with him. After all, in the end he’ll get what he wants. But she likes to make him work for it, make him beg for it. It’s all part of their cat-and-mouse; whoever ends the game first loses. 

No matter how hungry he is, he is always confident he will win. His arrogance bleeds into every part of his life, including this one, which makes it all the more sweet when she can bring him to the brink.

By mid-day, she knows she has the upper hand. She feels the ghost of the words on his lips unspoken. He wants to give in. More than once she’s caught him shifting in his seat, adjusting his pants, antsy and eager and itching for contact. Yet, his words remain all bravado and bluster, volleying barbs and pithy repartee like he’s rehearsed them in his sleep. 

Sometime after lunch, she crosses to his side of the desk to pick up a file folder and cheerfully sing-songs, “Remember, dear _junior_ partner, pride goeth before the fall.”

As she spins on her heels to walk back, he catches her wrist. The folder falls to her feet and a feathery gasp escapes from her lips. 

“How dare you,” he rasps, his low, gravelly voice tickling her spine.

Rebecca’s eyes dart to the bullpen. Everyone mills around as usual, blissfully unaware. 

Trailing his fingertips under her flouncy skirt to skim over the bare skin of her thigh, he whispers, “I think I have every reason to be prideful, don’t you?”

Again she nervously checks the bullpen for activity. 

“No one is watching,” he reassures her, his voice silky smooth. His face is infuriatingly smug, the cocky son-of-a-bitch. 

He’s right, of course. One touch and her cheeks are burning hot. His palm fits perfectly around the curve of her thigh and his fingers lightly graze her heat. Her knees threaten to buckle. Without meaning to, she exhales shakily, her whole body practically trembling suddenly with want.

Lowering his voice even further, he says softly under his breath, “I can smell you.”

Through gritted teeth, she says, “Fuck you.”

“That’s the idea.”

“You are such an asshole,” she growls, trying to suppress the smile that threatens to betray her words.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers. “Tell me you don’t want it.”

She can’t. She can’t stop. She doesn’t want to stop. To be desired this much is intoxicating, addictive. And the thrill, the ever-present danger of being caught only serves to further fan the flames.

Though he’s contrived an illusion of control with his warm, possessive hand wrapped like a crawling vine around her leg, she glances down at his lap and sees it – evidence that he’s just as far gone as she. 

“You win,” she huffs, a coquettish smile on her lips. “Let's go.”

With a self-satisfied grin, he begins to stand and immediately clocks his erection and ricochets straight back into his chair. Hiding his problem behind the relative safety of his desk and angling his chair toward the wall, he clears his throat, straightens his suit jacket. He is sufficiently, pleasurably ruffled.

“Oh,” she pouts, pretending to notice his problem for the first time. She taps her forefinger to her lips. “Oh, that’s too bad. What a shame.” She shrugs and adds, “Maybe later then?”

Nathaniel grunts.

She grabs her coffee mug off the desk and skips out of the office into the break room. 

Though she’s won this round, she knows that prolonging the chase only makes him more starved for her, more ravenous.

She can’t wait to be devoured. 


	3. Friction

Damp, stale air. Fluorescent lights. The dull ticking of the second hand of the wall clock.

The edge of the stiff, unforgiving table digs into her ass. His pants are at his ankles, one hand curled greedily around her neck, his fingers pulling the hair at her nape. Her dress is bunched up at her hips – they couldn’t be bothered to fully undress when their need is so elemental, primitive. 

Occasionally he wonders if she’s using him.

“Harder,” she breathes into his mouth. A waterfall of sensation rolls through him at the word. He drags his hand to her clit and rubs, rough and bruising. 

“Yeah,” she gasps. She’s all tight, stretching, perfect muscle. He wants to fuck her until they’re soaked in a disgusting heap of sweat and come. 

After she comes is the best time to take liberties – when she’s sated and pilant, her body melted liquid and her head filled with a cocktail of pleasure hormones. That’s when he can kiss her slowly and she may slip and say something that sparks his hope for more.

Even when she’s holding back for fear of being discovered, her orgasm is a thing to behold. Her orgasms are honest. Real. She comes from head to toe – shaking, whimpering, gorgeously uncontrolled. To muffle her pleasure, she tucks her face into his neck, her mouth opening in a silent scream. Her high heels dig into his lower back. As she rides out the storm, he stills and holds her until the puffing breaths against his neck slow. 

Soft lips turn into teeth sinking into the base of his throat.

_Use me_ , he thinks. _God, please use me._


	4. Love Language

Sticky sweet. He’s high on the heaven between her legs, the sighs that grace her lips. Determination and practice has her over the rainbow in a blissfully short amount of time. 

“Happy birthday,” he says _after_ , as he plants a final kiss on the inside of her knee.

In between rasping, labored breaths, she laughs at the ceiling, touching a hand to her heart. 

“So you _did_ know,” she says, propping herself up on her forearms. 

He smiles like the cat who ate the canary; he managed to surprise her. Rising to full height and stretching his legs with a wince, he says, “I have a personnel file on everyone in this office. I had George put a reminder on my calendar back when . . . a while back.”

Sitting up and smoothing out her skirt, she asks with a teasing lilt, “Oh, so was that your _gift_ to me? Classy.”

Nathaniel straightens his tie, shrugs on his suit jacket. “Are you complaining?”

“No, in fact I’m quite impressed with how consistently you defy the thirty-nine percent.”

“Thirty-nine percent of what now?”

Waving her hand, she says, “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“Actually, I did get you a gift. A real one,” he says.

From his inside breast pocket, he produces a small, unmistakable baby blue box wrapped in a white bow. 

He’s surprised her again. Her eyes widen to full deer-in-headlights. “Wha –? What is this?”

Suddenly nervous, he falters, “Uh, yeah. I mean, it’s not a big deal. I just –”

Rebecca hops down from the table and takes the box from his hand. 

“Tiffany’s?” she asks with an arched eyebrow.

“Is that classy enough for you?” 

The joke falls flat.

She opens the box. Inside, there is a set of three delicate gold hoop bracelets, each embellished with one small diamond.

“Oh my god,” she breathes. “Wow.”

“Remember that day we went to that Italian place in Beverly Hills? We walked down Rodeo and they had that holiday display –”

“I remember,” she says softly, her eyes transfixed on the shiny gold. “Of course I remember.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, he explains, “I went back the next day. I planned to save them for your birthday and now it’s your birthday so . . .”

“These are beautiful. I don’t know what to say.” 

He takes the bracelets out of the box and gently rolls them onto her wrist. Trailing his fingers over her arm, he says, “The, um, salesperson said it represents the past, present, and future. But I’m sure they just say that to sell jewelry.”

She stares at the gift in awe, running her fingertips over the gold. 

“Is it . . . is this OK?” he asks, lightly touching the corner of the box. The question is not only about the gift, of course, but about this thing – whatever it is – between them. Is it OK to give her a birthday gift? An expensive one? Is it OK to go down on her in the middle of a work day? To kiss her with such intimacy? Is it OK that he feels the same about her as when he bought the gift, when they were sharing a bed and going on dates? Is it OK what they’re doing?

It may be the first time he’s ever acknowledged their relationship out loud. He’s terrified to hear her answer.

“I don’t know,” she says honestly while admiring her wrist. “Probably not.” She looks up at him then, her eyes shining. Softly, she continues, “But I love it. It’s so thoughtful of you. I – I love this.” 

The way she says it, so gentle and earnest, makes him wonder if _this_ is more than the gift.

_I love this._

He clears his throat. “Well, um, I gotta get back.” 

When his hand is on the door knob, she says, “Wait, Nathaniel –”

She takes a timid step forward, rubbing her forearm. 

“Um,” she says, taking a deep breath. Then the air around her changes and she shakes her head. “Never mind. I mean, thank you. Thank you for this.”

“Happy birthday, Rebecca,” he says softly and winks before opening the door. 

Almost every day, she wears the bracelets. He notices, always notices. Whether she intends it or not, he takes it as a silent sign: _I love this._


	5. Closet

Exposed brick, dim lighting, and memories. The last time she saw _37_ up close like this was when she said goodbye. That was almost ten months ago, yet it feels like a lifetime.

Impulse alone brought her to his door. She didn’t give herself time to second guess or reflect. Over her Sunday morning green tea, he invaded her thoughts and wouldn’t leave. 

The uncomfortable truth that their relationship was more than sex had already settled in her heart before this, though she pushed it away the best she could. As much as she tries to convince herself otherwise, she isn’t over him. Not even close. She may even love him.

That realization propelled her to her car then to his apartment in a hurry. She’s told herself a million times over the past almost ten months that she isn’t ready for a relationship. But in this moment, as she’s running on pure adrenaline and hope, she doesn’t care. In seconds he could be sweeping her off her feet, kissing her, pledging his commitment to her and only her while an orchestral soundtrack swells to a crescendo in the background.

No more secrets. No more lying. Hiding. No more dusty supply closet and rigid glass desk tops.

Out of the shadows and into the light.

She raises her hand to knock, the bracelets sliding up her forearm.

Past. Present. _Future._

From behind the door she hears peals of laughter. A woman’s laughter. 

Her stomach drops. He’s not alone. 

For the first time, Mona isn’t an abstract concept. Now, she’s a sound. The sound of laughter. The sound of happy. 

Rebecca drops her arm and takes a step back, tears springing to her eyes. Of course he spends his weekends with his girlfriend. How stupid could she be to think otherwise? They go on dates. She spends the night. They laugh. He makes love to her on a soft bed. He takes his time. Maybe they have brunch afterward. 

She runs.

After, the only way she knows how to cope is to lie. This is what she wanted all along, she reminds herself. _You_ wanted this. You wanted no commitment, no intimacy. The only relationship you can handle is one with boundaries, low expectations. 

She rebuilds the wall around her heart.

_This is the healthiest romantic relationship I’ve ever been in_ , she hears herself say. _I’m not obsessed with him because I can’t really have him._

For the first time in months, her wrist is bare. 


	6. Parallels

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Rebecca and Heather exchange confused glances at the sound. 

“Did you order food?” Heather asks. “I mean, despite the fact it’s two in the morning, I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“No, though I could totally go for a burrito right now,” Rebecca replies, setting down her wine glass on the coffee table.

Heather pauses their rom-com selection of the night, _How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days_. Kate Hudson is crying over the demise of the love fern.

Rebecca rises from the couch. “In case this is a murderer, do you remember where the axe is?”

“I’m pretty sure if it _was_ a murderer, they wouldn’t, like, knock at the front door.”

“That’s fair,” she replies as she crosses the room to answer.

A swaying Nathaniel is on her doorstep. Her eyes bug out in surprise.

In a quick, knee jerk reaction, she demands, “What are you doing here?”

“I woke you. Did I wake you?” he asks, his words slurred.

“Uh, no.”

“Why not, it’s two in the morning?” 

Rebecca takes a purposeful step to the side so Nathaniel can clearly see Heather sitting on the couch behind her. Heather leans forward with interest, not even pretending to give them privacy.

“Heather and I are watching a movie. Are you drunk?”

“I wanted to see you.”

With an apologetic, embarrassed smile to Heather, Rebecca walks out onto the porch, closing the door behind her. 

“You can’t be here,” she says in a harsh whisper, though they’re out of Heather’s earshot.

“I wanted to see you,” he repeats emphatically, as if this should be all the explanation she needs.

“This is against the rules.”

Nathaniel blows a raspberry. “What rules? Please. There are no rules.”

“Nathaniel,” she says in a stern voice, trying to gain control, “you know you can’t come here.”

The moment he crowds her space and their pheromones start to intermingle, she’s a goner. Neither of them have ever hesitated to wield their physical chemistry like a weapon. His smell and his touch are chemical warfare. He cups her chin and trails kisses from her cheek to her jaw. 

“I want you,” he whispers. “I want you now. I can’t wait until Monday.”

She shivers. 

“Please let me in,” he says, his other hand coming to rest at her waist. 

Up close, the smell of hard alcohol on his breath is pungent and burning, and it snaps her back to reality. She gently pushes his chest and he backs up, removing his hand from her face.

“How much have you had to drink? What’s going on with you?”

He sighs, stares at the ground. “Mona and I had a fight.”

“A fight? About what? About me? Did she find out? What does she know?”

“Shh shh shh. Forget about her,” he says, advancing toward her again, pushing her hair away from her face. “Don’t think about her. I want to think about you. All I think about is you.” 

“We can’t. You know we can’t.”

Once it sinks in that he’s not going to get what he wants, his mood shifts. “What a party pooper,” he says, indignant, petulant. “So you can fuck me five days a week, but six is _crossing a line_?”

She bites her lip. He’s right, of course. Their arrangement is built on nothing but fragile, nonsensical, unspoken rules.

With no rebuttal, she pulls her phone out of her pocket and says, “I’m going to call you an Uber.”

“Booooo.” He pouts and it’s annoyingly adorable. For a brief moment, she wants to give in, let him stay. 

She tugs his arm, ushering him toward the street. “Go home. Apologize to your girlfriend. And I will see you tomorrow at the shower.”

When they get to the sidewalk, he tilts his head and a strand of hair falls over his forehead. It makes him look boyish, almost innocent somehow, though nothing could be further from the truth. 

“Why don’t you wear that to work?” he asks, abruptly changing the subject.

“My sushi pajamas?” she asks with a smirk.

He runs his fingers over the soft cotton from her shoulder down the length of her arm. “You’re so cute. So pretty. _That_ should be against the rules.”

She laughs because otherwise she’ll cry.

A seafoam green Prius pulls up to the curb. “That’s my ride, I presume,” he says ruefully, running his hand through his hair.

She helps him into the back seat of the car with a steady hand at his elbow. As he’s buckling his seat belt, she pokes her head through the open window and says to the Uber driver, “Be careful with this one. He’s used to a personal chauffeur.”

“Rebecca,” Nathaniel says softly, as she leans back from the car, prepared to walk away.

“What?”

“I should have waited.”

“Waited? Waited for what?”

The car pulls away from the curb.

"Nathaniel, waited for what?!" she calls after the car.

She never gets her answer.


	7. Choices

Cold, sterile, white tile. He’s crying. It’s pathetic.

Nathaniel’s hands bracket the sink and he stares disapprovingly at his reflection. Self-loathing isn’t an unfamiliar feeling, but the way this has knocked the breath out of him rivals some of his worst spells. 

When the toilet flushes in one of the stalls, it takes him by surprise. He straightens to full height and wipes at his eyes. The only thing worse than half the office witnessing Rebecca break up with him is one of his employees seeing him cry over it.

“Are you OK?” George asks as he walks tentatively to the sink next to him. “Are you crying?”

“Of course not,” he replies, clearing his throat. “I don’t cry.”

George washes his hands and meets Nathaniel’s eyes in the mirror. “May I speak freely, sir?”

“No.”

“I heard what happened out there in the break room,” he says, turning off the faucet. 

“How?” 

“Don’t worry about it. Listen, I know you like . . . _Office Depot_. It’s stable and reliable, always in stock with what we need. On time.” 

George grabs a paper towel and starts to dry his hands. He continues, “But if you love _Staples_ , there’s still time to switch suppliers.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. _Staples_ made their choice. They don’t want our business,” he snaps back, gripping the edge of the sink with both hands.

“If I may be candid –”

“Please don’t.”

“ – maybe _Staples_ just needs to hear you’re willing to switch. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Nathaniel scrubs his hand over his face and frowns, suppressing the urge to cry again. 

Softening, he asks, his voice shaky and quiet, staring at the drain, “What if she doesn’t love me?”

When George doesn’t respond right away, Nathaniel meets his eyes in the mirror, imploring him to answer.

“There’s only one way to know.”

When he returns to their office, she’s sitting in her seat, staring despondently at a piece of paper. At first, he tries to work. No matter how hard he tries to make progress, though, he can’t stop reading the same paragraph over and over, absorbing none of it. George’s words echo in his head on a loop and he can’t stop glancing at her side of the desk. She’s withdrawn, silent. Her usual bright, burning energy is dulled with sadness. 

She sighs and runs her fingers over the three bracelets on her wrist. That’s when he notices she’s wearing them. Today, knowing what she had to do, that she was going to end it, and she still wore them. He swallows. 

Past. Present. _Future_. 

Summoning all the courage he can muster from the depths of his heart, he takes a shaky, deep inhale. A profound feeling of _it’s now or never_ washes over him. At the sound of his breath, her sad eyes lift to finally meet his gaze.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, Elle! Look, Mom, it's really bite-sized!
> 
> Email: heartbashfic@gmail.com
> 
> Tumblr: @heartbash


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